Albatross
by LadyLazarus33
Summary: In the final weeks of the Civil War, something greater than a burden of the mind has taken hold of America, and may not only consume him but the rest of his household as well.
1. Chapter 1

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS **

_Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looks_  
><em> Had I from old and young !<em>  
><em> Instead of the cross, the Albatross<em>  
><em> About my neck was hung.<em>

_ **The Rime of the Ancient Mariner** || _Samuel Taylor Coleridge

* * *

><p>"I assume you're not here for a congratulations on my part?"<p>

The slight chuckle from the man at the table died away as the two others made no comment. His eyes flickered back and forth between the two other men, one seated in front of him, dark blue eyes unblinking and the other standing by the window, gaze set outside to the bustling streets of Washington.

"I don't think it would be wise to be so quick to congratulations and festivities given the somewhat recent events, hm?" Francis' voice was quiet, but the president could hear the hint of coldness underneath and fought back a shiver at the man's unwavering gaze on his form. Andrew Johnson cleared his throat.

"Yes, what happened to President Lincoln was _unfortunate _circumstances, but he died knowing that he saved this country. Speaking of which, I trust that Mr. Jones is recuperating?"

France smiled slowly, showing no teeth before breathing out a somewhat light sigh and leaning back in the low couch, draping one long arm across the back and crossing his legs. The stance reminded Johnson something of a cat. "Yes, of sorts. The boy harbors some guilt, as you may have guessed."

Johnson fumbled in his pocket for a moment, pulling out a box of matches and opening his desk drawer to pull out a cigar. France watched the man's actions with a steady gaze, waiting until he had taken a slow drag before speaking. The smoke curled from his lips in a heavy plume that seemed to hang over the room like a fog. "Mr. Jones is no more responsible for Booth's actions any more than if he had been bitten by a mad dog."

"Mad dogs are put down." The statement came from the nation by the window, vibrant green eyes still set on the mid-morning activities before wandering over to look at the president. France can practically taste his husband's distaste for the man but says nothing of it.

Johnson breaths a heavy sigh before replying. "Our best efforts are on catching him and bringing him to justice. I assumed that was universal around the world, given you British with proper technique and what not." The words are cold and seethed through a gritting set of teeth.

Arthur only chuckles, turning fully to the man and stepping forward, steps seeming to echo through the office before standing beside the low couch. "Yes, Mr. Johnson, but I'd like to believe we're a bit more…_enthusiastic_ when it comes to doing what's right."

England wants to laugh at the flash of rage in the man's eyes before Johnson pushes it down in a forced display of calm, taking another heavy drag of his cigar. The smoke plumes in the nation's direction when he exhales. England doesn't even flinch.

"I assure you, gentlemen, that our best efforts and fastest informants are working hard to find this man. In the meantime however, there's the matter of Mr. Jones returning to representation in office."

France raised an eyebrow at the statement. "Representation?"

"Yes." Johnson set his cigar in the ashtray beside him, linking his hands together and leaning forward, posture somewhat submissive though both nations could see right through the poorly disguised ruse. "As a nation, he has a certain…morale to keep up. Both for himself and for the people during this difficult time. Now, we are all concerned for his wellbeing, but for the moment we must out our own individual desires aside and ask ourselves, 'What is best for the whole community?'

"You want him to return and start working? _Now_?" Even England wants to flinch at the underlying rage in his partner's tone and the fact that it went right over the president's head. Johnson nods his head, smiling widely, not noticing the groves that Arthur was working with his nails into the wooden lining of the low couch from where his hand rested.

"Given the tragic circumstances over the past few days, these past four years mind you, there is a disheartening amongst everyone. And with my own rush into office to maintain some sense of stability, it's been a difficult time for the American people. Alfred being at home doesn't do much to add some relief into that equation. And it doesn't only benefit him to be here," Johnson added with a slight chuckle, "but to my assets as well."

France can hear the grooves of wood beginning to splinter underneath England's death grip. Fortunately, the president couldn't see or hear the man's actions. France steals a glance at his husband for half a second, wanting to wince at the nation's unreadable expression. When he started doing that, something bad was going to happen.

_Cher, you're going to break it._ Francis thinks the words to his husband. _Calm down._

_I'd like to break it over his head. The bloody sod thinking he has the __**nerve**__-_

_I am __**not**__ going to let you murder the President of the United States of America. _

_Oh, please Francis. You and I have done this enough times to know that we won't be getting caught. _

"I trust this isn't a problem?" The sound of the president's voice interrupts both the nations from their thoughts before England relaxes his grip, smiling at the man before stepping closer.

"Mr. Johnson, do you have children?"

The man's smile falters for a moment. "I-I beg your pardon?"

"Do you. Have children." The words are ice cold coming for the Englishman's mouth and France only watches as he goes in for the kill.

"Yes, five of them, but I fail to see how this is relevant to the conversation at ha-"

"Have you ever had the opportunity of watching them die?" England only continue, green gaze set firmly and unblinkingly on the now steadily anxious president, who was now debating on whether or not to call security to the imposing force in front of him, but found his heart to be steadily rising in his throat.

"No. No, I have not Mr. Kirkland." The words are full of the brim with growing anger that is badly concealed through forced calm. England nods, leaning both palms onto the desk.

"I like to think that the love we have for our children is like a lion. And what lion does not _cringe_ to see its cub in pain and eradicate whatever threat stands in the way?" England's smile is sickly sweet and the president finds himself sinking lower and lower into his seat at the flash of _murder _in those green eyes. He clears his throat, siting up slightly.

"I don't take kindly to threats, Mr. Kirkland and-"

"_Mon Dieu,_ will you _shut up?!"_ The words are spat by Francis now, cold and full of enough rage to make the man falter and rise half out of his seat in retaliation. Arthur's hand is lightening quick, and Johnson freezes at the iron grip on his shoulder. France rises out of his seat, slipping on his coat and moving over to the desk, leaning against the desk and crossing his arms. "I can personally assure you it has been a _very long time_ since we have had to deal with any threats to our children. Pray that you haven't gotten onto that list."

"I trust that we won't be hearing any more calls to office for a while. Not until we extend communication first?" The words are practically growled from England's chest. The president nods shakily, suddenly noticing the slow rush of blood to his shoulder as the nations step back and move towards the door.

"Good day, Mr. Johnson." England states before stepping out followed by France.

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><p>The Washington air is crisp and cold as they step back into the carriage. The ride back home begins as soon as they shut the door behind them. A pair of violet eyes meet France's in a form of greeting from across the small space.<p>

"That was quick." Matthew states, leaning his head against his father's shoulder before speaking again. "Did you talk to him?"

England snorts, momentarily giving his son's hand a squeeze while shooting a death glare at France who at the moment was trying to contain his laughter at the irony of the situation. He leans his head against the wall of the carriage, looking out at the pale grey sky. Canada's finger traces the scar over his left hand.

"Something like that."

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><p><strong>Hahahaha...don't you just love it when your parents come and threaten your boss? I know I do. :) I entertain the headcanon in my head that France and England have done quite a bit of dirty work when it comes to their children. I'd probably be that kind of parent when I get older. <strong>

**For those who are wondering why this isn't going in to _Jigsaw_, I wanted to expand on the last few weeks of the Civil War from not only Alfred's perspective, but how it affected the household as well. I will eventually post this into _Jigsaw_, but not right now. Don't worry! :) And I'm currently writing a new chapter to post for it so that's nice. **

**As you all guessed, we're working backwards in a way. *angry cries from readers* I can do that because I'm the author. So there. :P **

**Any guesses to the scar? Let me know in comments! **

**READ AND REVIEW! **


	2. Chapter 2

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

_4 years and 23 days earlier_

The simple meal of rice and beef looked less and less appetizing the more that he stared at his plate. England's brow furrowed at the sight of his son, countenance less than cheerful, if anything all together absent presence from the rest of them at the dinner table. The boy would normally be chatting up a storm while at the same time shoveling food down his throat.

America's stomach churned again, and he takes a slow sip of water to quell the growing discomfort. Canada's violet eyes flicker over to his brother's form before speaking, voice hesitant. "You okay, Al? You look a little pale."

Both parents watched their son with growing worry from the other side of the table as Alfred blinked slowly, before cracking a small smile. The action itself looked like it physically hurt the nation to do it. The silence reigned for five more seconds before he spoke, voice quiet and dull. "Yeah, just tired."

"Do you want to go to bed?" The question was from France and England can see the concern behind his dark blue eyes, though the Frenchman was always better at masking his emotions no matter how flamboyant and extroverted he tended to be at times.

Alfred shakes his head, and the actions sends the headache that was pounding in the back of his skull all around it. He pulls his lips in between his teeth and fights back a groan. Matthew winces at the pain, though duller to an extent, reverberating through their link.

England sets his fork down slowly, parental instincts on highest alert as he eyes his son, who looked almost about to collapse from where he sat. "Alfred, I think you should-"

_"__I said I was fine."_ The words are spat at his parental figure, and both his parents eyes narrow at the loss of temper. It wasn't a rare occurrence, but when it did occur it was never with the amount of ferocity he had just expelled from himself at them now.

Red suddenly spotted the table cloth.

Alfred wipes his mouth with a quivering hand, trying to ignore the spots of blood that smear across his fingers like a stain as the last vestiges of the cough went away from his chest. The area felt hollow and burning at the same time. When he looks up from staring at the scattered spots and smears of red on his hand, both his parents are out of their seats.

"G- up-"

"Alf- c-"

The words are coming in broken fragments as his parents grasps either side of his arms trying to get him out of the chair. America stands slowly, the room spinning with forced and ever-present vertigo and Canada is on his feet, moving back his chair beside his brother-_something was wrong wrong wrong wrong why did his head hurt so much_- before the world comes rushing at Alfred.

France and England are left holding a dead weight as their son sinks to the floor.

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><p><strong>*SIGH* This is too short, I know I will add more to this but after I finish Chemistry and English. I promise! Literally give me an hour. :) <strong>

**READ AND BE KIND IN REVIEWS! (Given the terrible nature of this chapter) :) **

**In regards to the most recent review posted, no, America does not have consumption/tuberculosis. That disease is like the Mary-Sue of untimely deaths in history. The blood is due to the secession of the seven major states in January 1861, further explained in the footnotes of Chapter 3. Thanks for your questions! PM me if you have any more! **


	3. Chapter 3

**I DO NOT OWN HETALIA:AXIS POWERS**

_Think I got the message figured_  
><em> Another pilot down<em>  
><em> And are their devils with halos<em>  
><em> In beautiful capes<em>  
><em> Taking them into the flames?<em>  
><strong> Not The Red Baron<strong> || Tori Amos

* * *

><p>Light first.<p>

_No._

Shadow. Or shadows of a sort. Half faded rays of sunlight seemed to float and shift around behind his eyelids and for a moment a part of him wondered why it was so dark given the sunlight that was so cold and so close-

Then sound.

Warbled, fading and shifting in and out as if it could decide whether or not to stay in his eardrum and project the message about whatever was happening to the rest of his brain. An urge in the back of his head wants to shut out any semblance of noise and sink back down into the dark.

"Al-d?"

"Alf-"

"Alfred?"

His eyes force themselves open to look at the sun but only end up finding the ceiling.

The dull ache in the back of his mind seemed to forward itself all around his head and reverberate on the inside of his skull. Green eyes look down into his, and he can see the message of _worry_ in their depths, but let it go away for now. Something firm pushes him back down when he tries to lift himself up onto his elbows.

America frowns, blinking once more until the eyes matched a memory of tea and thunderstorms across the skies in the afternoon and then the face of his father clicks in his mind. England keeps his grip on the younger nation's shoulder, in case he tried to lift himself too quickly once again.

"Wha-"His mouth felt like sandpaper before his stomach twisted painfully and the nausea came in.

The question he had begun to ask was cut off with a groan and before he knows it, he's halfway off the couch and trying to move out of England's grip to run to the bathroom. Someone is yelling, and until he can fully make sense of the situation, there is another pair of hands lifting him up and something cold being presses against his chin.

Embarrassment floods through his system, but considering the situation and his disorientation, he was too tired and sick to fully notice and do something to quell the emotion in his chest. Before he could refuse anything, he's vomiting into the bowl.

England wants to gag himself at the combination of vomit and batches of blood mixed through.

Cool hands are on the back of his neck and rubbing circle between his shoulders as a quiet mixture of French and English are floating through the air. It wasn't long before his rebellious stomach calmed to a workable extent, though he could feel the uneasiness every time he moved as he was leaned back onto the couch.

America tries to speak, but any motion made the nausea flare up again violently before England cuts him off. "No. You need to stay still."

"You passed out, _mon fils_." France adds from where he stood beside his husband. The blank look from his son caused his brow to furrow and he leans down, balancing on the balls of his feet to look more closely at Alfred. "Do you remember blacking out?"

Alfred shakes his head slowly. His throat works with the motion of swallowing, and he takes in a steady inhale, wincing at the taste of bile and blood in the back of his throat before responding to his father.

"They're gone."

Now it both their turns to be confused. France steals a glance at England, who is looking just as puzzled before pressing further, green eyes narrowed slightly. "What are you talking about, lad?"

Their son's face retains the same questioning look at Francis as if trying to understand what the both of them were saying before the same words spilled past his lips. "They're gone. Seven-" Another wave of pain moves through him again and his fingernails dig into his father's hands with surprising strength. They watched as America's back arched painfully off the surface of the cushion.

_"__Utter subjugation awaits us in the Union, if we should consent longer to remain in it. It is not a matter of choice, but of necessity. We must either submit to degradation, and to the loss of property worth four billions of money, or we must secede from the Union framed by our fathers, to secure this as well as every other species of property. For far less cause than this, our fathers separated from the Crown of England. "_

The words are strangled from the boy's lips before he collapses again, his parents catching him for a second time as his world sank into nothing but oblivion.

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><p><strong>HISTORY TIME! Ok, so the words in the first quote are the declaration of secession of Mississippi of January 1861. Secondly, there were seven states that left the union pretty much at the same time at the beginning of the American Civil War:<strong>

**South Carolina **

**Mississippi**

**Florida **

**Alabama **

**Georgia **

**Louisiana**

**Republic of Texas **

**I don't know how time wise this fic will work out, given the multiple happenings going on either ide during the beginning of the war itself. Things are hopefully going to get much darker from here, so don't give up on me yet! :) This chapter is here because readers wanted more from the seconds chapter, so here you go! I live to please thee. :) I know this was incredibly short(and to be honest I'm kind of embarrassed about it, so I'll need some encouragement from all of you wonderful people), but I promise things will get longer! **

**Song(s) that inspired this chapter:**

**_Not the Red Baron_ by Tori Amos **

**_Are You Satisfied?_ by Marina and the Diamonds **

**Any suggestions, comments, or just questions? Let me know in comments! **

**READ AND REVIEW!**


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